


Hello, Oliver

by jooliewrites



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Future Fic, M/M, Song fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 16:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5097545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jooliewrites/pseuds/jooliewrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The number always comes back to him. </p><p>He forgets his pin half the time and had to write down his social security number on a post-it hidden in his desk but Connor can’t manage to forget Oliver’s number from eight years ago. </p><p>Or was it nine now? </p><p>+</p><p>A future fic inspired by Hello by Adele.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Hello, can you hear me?_  
>  _I'm in California dreaming about who we used to be_  
>  _When we were younger and free_  
>  _I've forgotten how it felt before the world fell at our feet_  
>  -[Hello by Adele](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YQHsXMglC9A)
> 
> -
> 
> originally posted on [tumblr](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com/post/131780671708/this-is-like-98-adeles-faultand-also)

The number always comes back to him.

He forgets his pin half the time and had to write down his social security number on a post-it hidden in his desk but Connor can’t manage to forget Oliver’s number from eight years ago.

Or was it nine now?

He takes another sip of his drink, flipping his phone over and over, and walks over to the wall of windows. His office is large and spacious and twenty-four floors up. Look at you, Connor thinks, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the clear glass, just 35 and look at this office, this _view_. This is an office of someone whose career means something. Someone important.

Looking away from the reflection he can’t stand, Connor watches as twilight settles over Los Angeles. Normally, if he turns his head just so, Connor can catch a glimpse of the ocean through the skyscrapers but he can’t find the water in the fading light.

He considers it one of the many benefits of living in California - the ocean is right there. Connor could surf everyday if he wanted to. He doesn’t, of course; he doesn’t know know how. In the seven years he’s been out here, Connor’s never taken a lesson. But that really doesn’t matter. He has the option to go surfing everyday. That’s the important thing.

Turning his back to the window, Connor slides down until he’s sitting on the plush carpet. He downs the last of the drink in one swallow and sets the glass aside to click open his phone.

Connor scrolls through the contact list and debates who to reach out to. It may be Friday night but it’s early; there has to be someone around to grab dinner with. No, Connor abruptly decides, not dinner. At dinner you have to make conversation and small talk, fake interest in what the other person has to say. Plus the lighting is too bright in restaurants, you can really see who’s sitting across from you. No, drinks. A late drink. He can work a few more hours and then meet up with someone. Too late for conversation. Too late to pretend the hookup is anything more than that.

He gets down the list through the M’s and the N’s until his finger slows as he moves through the O’s. Connor knows it’s not going to be there. He made himself delete the number the second he moved out of 303. But still, he slows and looks for the contact he knows isn’t there.

At the time, they’d mutually decided a clean break was best so Connor made sure it was as clean a break as possible. He’d deleted the number and unfriended Oliver on Facebook before even settling on Michaela’s couch. Connor’d gone through the boxes he packed three times to make sure he wasn’t accidentally taking anything of Oliver’s with him and had combed through the apartment to make sure nothing was left behind. The entire thing was ripping his heart out but at least the cuts were nice and neat.

He’d kept his keys though. He had given Oliver a set back of course but that set had been a new one Connor’d made up, a copy of a copy. The keys Oliver had made him and presented in the silliest key gifting ceremony Connor’d ever heard of, those keys Connor kept close.

He hadn’t kept them for any nefarious reason; Connor’d never gone back to 303. Hell, he’d never even stepped within a five-block radius of the building after moving out. There was just something about reaching in his pocket in the middle of a terrible day to feel that keyring that centered him. They felt like a talisman, a lodestar to help Connor find his way home.

Even now, an entire country between Connor and that apartment, that keyring sat in the bottom of his briefcase. Never too far from reach.

On his phone, Connor finishes scrolling through the O’s and is onto the P’s before he stops all together. He’s not going to call anyone. No one he’s met since 303 ever felt right. They were all too tall or too short. Too loud or too quiet. Too. Too. Too.

When his last relationship, if it could really be called that, had broken up, Connor hadn’t even been able to answer Tim’s question of “Why?” Because even Connor Walsh, relationship failure that he was, knew he couldn’t say _Your laugh doesn’t sound right_ or _Your hand doesn’t feel right in mine_ or _I feel odd laying next to you in bed and for a split second when I wake up I think you’re a stranger._

Connor lets his head hang heavy between his bent knees. What’s the point of even pretending anymore that he’s not going to call _him_?

Clicking over to the keypad, head still low, Connor dials Oliver’s number from memory.

Eight, or maybe nine, years later and the number still comes back.

As it rings, Connor thinks back to the last time they spoke in person. The last time he saw Oliver. The last time they touched.

It was right before Oliver’s testimony, a part of the plea deal he’d struck, and Connor found him pacing an empty hallway. Spotting Connor approaching, Oliver’d froze, mid-step. “I’m not supposed to talk with you,” Oliver said, licking his lips and turning away. “My lawyer said-”

“I know,” Connor whispered. He knew they weren’t supposed to see each other and he’d been trying to keep the break ‘clean’ but Connor hadn’t been able to help himself. Oliver was going on the stand today and Connor couldn’t stay away. “I just…I just wanted to-”

“What?” Oliver demanded, turning back quickly. “What do you want? What more could you want?”

Connor shook his head and tugged a hand through his hair. “Do you know what you’re going to say?”

Oliver nodded and wasn’t even surprised when his anger fizzled out. He was so tried of this all. “She and I’ve been over it a few times now.”

“Okay. Okay.” Connor nodded too. “That’s good then.” He shoved his hands in this pockets and tried to think of more to say. Anything to say to let him keep standing here close enough to smell Oliver’s laundry detergent. “Are you ready for what’s going to happen in there?”

“I think so.” Oliver headed over to sit down on a bench and Connor followed suit. “She said they’re probably going to talk about you. Make it out like you played me and paint me as some lovesick idiot.”

Connor nodded again. He’d expected little more. “Makes sense.”

“It does?”

Connor’s look was pained when he met Oliver’s eyes. “I mean…that’s kind of how we started.”

Oliver shook his head. “No. I made a choice-”

“I manipulated you-”

“I _decided_ to-”

“You would never have done any of it if it wasn’t for me!” Connor hissed at him. “Okay? I manipulated you and…and I played you and…and whatever else that say, alright?” Connor waited for Oliver to meet his gaze. “You do whatever it takes, throw it all on me, I don’t care. That’s fine. You say whatever you need to.”

Oliver swallowed and looked away, eyes blinking too fast. “But that’s not really what happened, right?” Oliver stole a glance and his hand shook when he reached out for Connor’s. “I mean, I know that’s how it looks but…but that wasn’t really us, right? That wasn’t how it was.”

Connor covered Oliver’s hand with his. “No,” he reassured. “That isn’t even close to how it was.”

Connor’d wanted to say ‘I love you’ then, wanted to say those three little words just once more, but he held them back. So, they sat there, holding hands in a quiet hall, until Oliver was called in.

Connor hadn’t been in the courtroom for Oliver’s testimony. He told himself he didn’t want to unfairly influence Oliver by sitting in the back but, the reality had been, he didn’t want to listen when Oliver blamed him.

Months later, Michaela smuggled a copy of the transcript into Connor’s bag before his flight out to LA. Connor’d read it on plane and had been surprised that Oliver hadn’t thrown any of it on him. At one point Oliver’d even argued with his own attorney about Connor’s role in his hacking, playing down Connor’s influence on his behavior. With his own back against the wall, Oliver had protected him, defended him, and Connor’d never been able to thank him.

 _Maybe that’s what I’ll say_ , Connor thinks as the phone keeps ringing. He could finally thank Oliver for the part he’d played in keeping Connor out of jail. That certainly sounded better than _I called because I can’t remember how your voice sounds anymore and it keeps me up at night_.

The phone kept ringing on and Connor swore at himself. He hadn’t been counting the rings. Normally he counted the rings and hung up quickly before voicemail clicked on but this time he’d lost count. He should just hang up already. It’s been long enough. It’s been too long now. Connor’s playing to close to the edge. What if Oliver answers? What it someone else answers? What is he even doing with this?

“Hello.”

Connor’s gasp is harsh. It’s Oliver. Oliver’s on the phone. It’s not a dream or a vision or an old set of keys clutched in a fist.

It’s Oliver.

“Hello,” Oliver says again. “Is anyone there?”

Connor swallows down and doesn’t care when his voice breaks a little.

“Hello, Oliver.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on [tumblr](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com/post/131924816683/this-part-is-also-mostly-adeles-fault-why-is-all)

“Connor?” Oliver asks to confirm and Connor ignores how his heart skips a beat at hearing Oliver say his name. He’d forgotten how good his name sounded on Oliver’s tongue. “Connor Walsh?“

“Yeah,” Connor breathes out. “It’s me.”

“Well, this is certainly unexpected.”

Connor can hear the smile in Oliver’s voice and grips the phone tighter in his hand. Clinging to the fact that somewhere out there, at this very moment in time, Oliver is smiling.

The silence on the phone stretches out for a breath too long before Connor jolts back. Oliver’s waiting for him to say something, for Connor to explain why he’s calling after all this time.

“Sorry for bothering you,” Connor stalls. “I know it’s late there.” He tries quickly to calculate the time difference in his head and just gets confused.

“Its not too late,” Oliver comments. “You’re actually lucky you called now. Just finished up with bath and story time. Twenty minutes earlier and I wouldn’t have been able to answer.”

“Bath and-” Connor’s on the verge of making a joke when it hits him with horror.

Oliver wasn’t talking about himself, obviously. Oliver was talking about putting a child to bed. His child. Oliver has a child.

“Right,” Connor whispers and clears his throat. He feels like he’s just been punched in the gut and can’t get his breath back. “Can’t interrupt story time.”

Oliver chuckles at that. “Certainly not. I think she’d have my head.”

She. It’s a girl. Oliver has a daughter.

A daughter to read stories to and braid her damp hair after a bath so it dries curly. A daughter to teach how to ride a bike and sign up for t-ball. A little hand to hold tight walking through parking lots and sticky fingers to smudge stainless steel appliances. Oliver has a daughter.

“I-” Connor isn’t really sure what he was going to say when he hears another voice in the background.

It’s low and muffled but deep, a man’s voice. A boyfriend’s voice. A husband’s voice. A husband probably asking Oliver ‘Who is it?’ while he picks up the living room or folds laundry or any of the dozens of other end of the day domestic tasks that fathers do once their children are safely asleep.

Oliver has a family. A family to love and protect and come home to. And Connor has an empty but spacious office on the twenty-fourth floor and a cold condo waiting for him at the end of the of everyday.

“I didn’t know you had a daughter,” Connor says.

He doesn’t mean for it to come out as an accusation. He doesn’t mean to sound so defensive and hurt. It had been stupid and selfish of him to think that Oliver wouldn’t move on. Foolish to hope that Oliver too would be sitting at work late on Friday night thinking about keys and courthouse benches and shy smiles. Of all people, Oliver deserves a family. Oliver deserves everything.

But thankfully Oliver doesn’t seem offended by Connor’s tone when he responds, “Oh. I’m sor-” Oliver’s quick to cut off the unnecessary apology before it lands. “I’d thought Michaela would have mentioned it or…or something.”

Connor nods at that. If he and Michaela still spoke it probably would have been something she’d mention, a tidbit she came across on Facebook and passed on. “She and I don’t talk much anymore.”

They hadn’t talked in…a good while. Connor actually can’t remember the last time they spoke. He’d called on her birthday but that had to be at least three years ago by now. Or has she called on his and it had been four? Connor thinks he wished her a happy birthday on Facebook this year but he can’t remember now.

“Why not?” Oliver asks.

“Just…just fell out of touch. Life got in the way, I guess,” is what Connor tells Oliver. But it would be more accurate of him to say _She reminded me too much of you. They all did. Talking with them kept making me think of you. Reminded me too much of when I was happy. Reminded me of when I was loved._

“So tell me more about her,” Connor prompts, desperate to change the subject.

“Michaela?”

“No. Your-” Connor clears his throat and tries not to choke on the words. “Your daughter.”

“Oh, god. Where do I start?” Oliver asks.

Connor can hear Oliver smiling over the phone again and squeezes it tight in his fist. “What’s her name?” Connor whispers.

But, before Oliver can even answer, Connor knows. _Ruth_.

“Ruth,” Oliver confirms. “And before you laugh, it’s a family name.”

“I remember,” Connor breathes, much too low for Oliver to hear.

And he does.

While Oliver rambles away, telling stories of mischief and mayhem in the way all proud parents do, Connor remembers.

They were spread out on their bed in 303. The sheets pooled around them and pillows piled close. Connor was tucked under Oliver’s arm and Oliver was playing with their hands, tangling their fingers together and tracing light fingertips over the lines on Connor’s palm.

Their anniversary was coming up and it was giving Connor ideas about banquet halls and invitations and cake flavors. Ideas about sickness and health, richer and poorer. Ideas about vows and promises and growing old together.

“What do you think about kids?” Connor asked in a lazy, offhanded way that seemed appropriate for the lazy afternoon.

“In general?” Oliver asked. “Because in general, they seem okay.”

“No.” Connor rolled his eyes. “What do you think about _having_ kids?”

“Connor, I hate to be the one to explain this to you but biologically I can’t-”

Connor pinched Oliver hip and lovingly scolded, “No, you dumbass.” He turned in Oliver’s hold to fold his arms on Oliver’s chest on propped up his chin on his forearms. “What do you think about us having kids?”

“Are you for real right now?” Oliver questioned, doubt and hope in his eyes.

“For real,” Connor confirmed. “What do you think about us having kids, Ollie?”

“Well, I’d like kids.” Oliver couldn’t hold back the grin that spread wide and fast. “Two kids, I think.”

“Only two.” Connor smiled back. “I want three.”

“They’d outnumber us.”

“But we’d be the dads,” Connor said. “We’d hold all the cards. And if they start a revolt, we’ll just ground them all.”

“I don’t think that’s how parenting works.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly how it works.”

“You’re crazy,” Oliver chuckled. He carded a hand through Connor’s hair. “So we’re gonna have three kids.” Connor nodded in confirmation. “And are these kids going to be boys or girls?”

“Two boys and a girl.”

“Oh my god. You really did think about this,” Oliver said in joyful shock. Connor nodded again and grinned. “Do you have their names already picked out?”

“Well, I figured we could talk about those.” Connor sketched an absent pattern on Oliver’s skin with his finger. “But I was thinking of Alex or Ryan for the boys. And for the girl-”

“Ruth,” Oliver said quickly. “It was my grandmother’s name. And she-” Oliver licked his lips and glanced away. “She was really…really great.” Oliver paused to swallow for a beat and Connor waited. “I always thought that if I was ever lucky enough to have a daughter, I wanted to name her Ruth.”

“Okay then. Ruth it is,” Connor said. “Although, if we’re gonna go with Ruth we should probably rethink Ryan. Alex would feel left out. Or, we could lean in to the R theme, you know? Richard or…or Robert? Both of those have shitty nicknames though. Oh! What about Randall? Or Ryder? Or-”

Oliver cut Connor’s rambling off with a kiss. And they made love slow on that lazy afternoon. The way people do when they have years together spread out in front of them like a warm blanket. Years full of time and laughter, children and love.

Then, three weeks later, all of Connor’s carefully laid plans came crashing down with a firm knock on 303.

“-to this day, I’m still not sure how she got into that cabinet.” Oliver finishes a story Connor wasn’t paying attention to with a chuckle.

Connor doesn’t understand the punchline but he laughs anyway. He goes for hardy but fears it came off too forced and frantic.

“She sounds great,” Connor clips out. He’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep it together. He has to keep it together.

“She really is.” And there’s that smile in Oliver’s voice again. Connor feels his gut twist with it this time.

Oliver had their Ruth with someone else.

“So, how are you?” Oliver asks, his voice too cheerful. “I heard you moved out to LA.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did,” Connor says. “Seven years ago now.” Or was it closer to eight?

“That’s great, Connor.”

“Yeah, it’s really - I mean the city’s great. So much to do.” Connor really hopes Oliver doesn’t ask much about LA. In all his time out here, Connor really only knows which streets to take to get to work and the fast food chains that stay open late when he’s heading home at midnight. In the seven or eight years he’s lived in the Golden State, Connor’s never found time to explore it.

“And your job’s good?” Oliver prompts; sensing, even after all this time, that Connor’s at a loss for how to keep conversation going.

“Job’s great. Really busy.” Connor looks out over his empty office. On the far wall hangs various plaques and there’s a small bookshelf with some small awards, all earned in recognition of a job well done. It suddenly hits him. Those pieces of junk metal that he was so proud to receive are going to be all he has to show for his life.

Oliver’s got a family and a kid and has built a life with friends and neighbors and all that shit. Connor has a plaque naming him the Employee of the Fucking Year.

“The job’s really great,” Connor chokes out.

“Everything you wanted?” Oliver asks, not at all unkindly. “I mean, I know you’d wanted to go into criminal defense but-”

“No. It’s good,” Connor cuts him off. He needs to end this phone call. He needs to end it now before he does something super embarrassing, like release the sob hanging right there in his chest. “I like it well enough.”

“Well, that’s good then. I’m glad.”

Oliver pauses and Connor can see Oliver in his mind’s eye worrying at his thumbnail. Oliver always did that when he was nervous about saying something and Connor can’t believe he still remembers that.

Then, Oliver asks, “Hey, Connor?”

“Yeah, Oliver.”

“Are you happy?”

And, with that, Connor loses it. The breath he drags in sounds much too close to a sob for his liking but he holds the phone away and hopes Oliver didn’t hear it.

“Listen, Ollie, I gotta go,” Connor says, voice harsh and broken. The nickname falls from his lips like muscle memory and Connor’s too gone to wonder if he’s lost that privilege.

“No, Connor. Wait!”

“Nope. No. I…I gotta go. I…A client’s calling and I gotta take this-”

“Wait! Connor, please,” Oliver begs. “I’m going to be out in California next month. I’ve got a conference in San Francisco. I know it’s far but could we have dinner or something?”

“Yeah. Sure,” Connor absently promises. He needs to get off this call _now_. “Just…just call or text or something. We can figure it all-”

“Yeah. I will. I’ll call you.” In his desperate state, Connor misses the hope in Oliver’s tone. “I’ll call you closer to-”

“Yeah. That’s good. That’s good, Ollie. I gotta take this now.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Yeah. Bye, Ollie.”

Connor slams his finger down on the red End Call button and tosses the phone away.

Pulling his knees in close and wrapping his arms around his legs, Connor curls into a ball and rocks and the sobs wreck his frame.

Oliver has a kid.

Oliver has a someone. A partner or husband or whatever. Connor can get all the details on when they have dinner later.

Oliver has a family.

Connor tugs a hand through his hair and lets the tears fall free.

Oliver has a Ruth.

Oliver had their Ruth, _theirs_ , with someone else.

As Connor breaks, sitting on the floor with his back against the windows, he’s almost thankful for the empty office. At least here the only witnesses to his heartbreak are a few meaningless pieces of scrap metal and the world’s more uncomfortable office chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [x](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies this chapter took so long. This is not really the chapter I'd set out to write....  
> (On [tumblr](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com/post/133955455998/more-adele-induced-ridiculousness-ao3-one))

And just like that, the line goes dead.

“Connor!” Oliver calls once more into the phone, hoping against hope for Connor to still be there but only silence echoes back.

He takes the phone away from his ear and wipes the screen clean with his thumb before clicking over to save Connor’s number.

For years Oliver suspected Connor was the one on the other end of the random hang-ups he’d get every few months. Sporadically, his phone would light up the bedroom or buzz on the nightstand in the middle of the night for one or two rings before quickly dimming again. Other times the call would just register for half a ring in the middle of lunch or during dinner before the caller thought better of it and the ring died just as quickly as it’d begun.

It was few and far between when Oliver was actually close enough to grab his phone before the call ended but, on those rare times, his thumb always hesitated over Accept.

Accept would mean actually _talking_ to the mystery caller. Accept would mean the confirmation of suspicions long held or further proof of his own delusions.

Without actually answering any of the calls, Oliver was able to pretend the person on the other end was whomever he wanted. The cute guy who’d winked at Oliver on the subway. Arms Man from the gym. The new intern at work whose dimples gave Oliver shameful flashbacks to every boss-secretary video he’d ever seen.

But most of the time Oliver pretended the mystery caller was Connor.

Connor calling him from California. Wondering, after all these years, about the one who’d got away.

“Why don’t you just block them?” Chad asked one month when the calls were coming in much too frequently. For years now, Oliver had been able to hide just how often the hang-ups were coming in but Chad was starting to catch on and he wasn’t keen on hiding his displeasure.

“It’s gotta be a telemarketer or something,” he insisted as he fussed with his coffee in the morning. “Just block them already so we can get some sleep one night this week.”

And, in the light of day, Oliver nodded with agreement.

But then that night, lying next to Chad in bed, Oliver had picked up the silenced phone and watched it ring. His mind helplessly worrying about people who’d moved much too far away. Worrying about people whose numbers Oliver had deleted too quickly years ago in the name of keeping things ‘clean.’

When the call faded away, Oliver waited for the missed call bubble to pop up on his screen and slipped out of bed to check his voicemail. Silently closing the bathroom door, Oliver flipped the vanity lights on low and punched in his passcode. The caller never left a voicemail but Oliver still checked every time on the off chance that this time would be different.

“You have no new messages,” the automated voice told him and breath he pulled in was ragged, pained without any real reason to be.

Glancing up, Oliver caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror – tired and getting old, bags hanging heavy under his eyes and the beginning of a gut hanging heavier over the waistband of his boxer briefs — and he’d thrown the phone down on the sink, disgusted with himself.

Connor Walsh wasn’t on the other side of the country, sitting up late at night and thinking about _him_. He, Oliver Hampton, was not the kind of the guy people pinned over. He wasn’t anyone’s one who got away.

 _He’s moved on_ , Oliver told himself, as he climbed back in bed next to Chad. _Just like you have._

And at the time, with his husband’s steady breathing ghosting against his shoulder, that thought had made Oliver want to weep.

But now as it turns out Oliver had been right all along all those years. Connor _had_ been the caller on the other end of the phone.

Why did that too make him want to weep?

The buzz from the dryer brings Oliver out of his musings with a jolt.

“Hey!” Chad says, leaning one hip against the doorway. “Here’s where you snuck off to.”

“Yep.” Oliver opens the dryer with a resigned edge in his voice. Chad’s voice is suddenly, and inexplicably, grating. “You found me.”

“That I did.” Chad crosses his arms over his chest and smiles. Watching Oliver pull clean clothes out of the dryer, Chad waits for the explanation that apparently isn’t coming. “So,” he presses against Oliver’s silence, “who was on the phone?”

“An old friend,” Oliver tells him and ignores the pang of guilt in his gut. It’s not a lie and, even if it were, he doesn’t need to feel guilty anymore for lying to Chad.

“An old friend,” Chad repeats; his tone making it clear he doesn’t believe that for a moment. “Which old friend?”

Oliver raises an eyebrow. “ _My_ old friend.”

“Come on,” Chad cajoles. He takes the laundry basket from Oliver to hold while Oliver switches the wet clothes from the washer into the dryer. “You can tell me. Who was it?”

“Why does it matter?” Oliver asks.

“It doesn’t.” Chad wonders if Oliver believes that any more than he does. Why does it matter so much to him who calls Oliver? It’s none of his business anymore who Oliver chooses to spend time with. “I just want to know. I mean, you disappeared into the laundry room for christ’s sake.” When Oliver just keeps shoveling wet clothes into the dryer, Chad teases, “Were you talking to a boy?”

“I came in here for some privacy,” Oliver counters. Why is he defending himself? Why are they even having this discussion?

“Since when do you need privacy from me?”

“Since nine months ago.”

Oliver slams the dryer door closed and twists the knob to start the machine. When Oliver pushes past, Chad steps quickly aside to let Oliver by. Oliver’s pique of anger is justified and Chad knows it. This, tonight, had been a terrible idea. He keeps forgetting himself tonight.

Trailing behind, Chad carts the laundry basket to the kitchen table and they start sorting and folding the clothes together.

“Sorry,” Chad mutters as he searches for matching sock pairs. Oliver doesn’t say anything so he continues. “It’s weird, being back.” Chad swallows once but Oliver’s still stoic. Oliver’s always stoic lately. “Like I keep getting déjà vu or…or something.”

Oliver nods and holds out one side of a fitted sheet for Chad to help fold. “I know the feeling.”

“It’s kinda nice though, right?” Chad tries to keep the hope out of his voice and fails miserably. “Me being back home—”

“Chad,” Oliver warns lightly.

“Come on, Ollie. Admit it. You missed me.” Chad tugs on the sheet, trying to pull Oliver over a step but Oliver doesn’t move. “And I think Ruth liked—”

“Chad,” Oliver warns again and this time it’s lethal. “Enough.”

“But Ollie—” Chad starts to insist and wonders again what is with him tonight. He’s been doing okay lately. Actually, he’d been doing great lately, thank you very much. What was it about being here again that was making him rethink. Revisit. Regret.

“Enough!” Oliver snaps the sheet away to finish folding it himself. He’s quick and efficient as he folds no wasted energy or effort.

It _has_ been nice having Chad back here tonight; slipping back into the old routine of dinner and bedtime and chores. The conversation flowing easily between them, both used to the abrupt starts and stops that come with trying to do a dozen things at once with a child underfoot.

It all made Oliver acutely aware of how quiet the house normally was at night now. No one to share mundane stories about work or complain about the construction that added precious time to his commute. No one to share the load by drying the dishes he washed or taking out the trash while he packed Ruth’s lunch for the next day.

Oliver had forgotten how nice it was to share a life with someone. Beyond the Big Things – having a date for a wedding or someone to kiss on New Year’s – it was the little things Oliver had missed most. Someone’s weight spread next to him while he slept. Someone to fill him in when he went to the bathroom in the middle of the movie. Someone to sit with, in simple, understanding quiet, at the end of a long day.

In the months since Chad had moved out, Oliver had missed having a someone but he hadn’t necessarily missed Chad. And he didn’t think Chad had really missed him either.

They had loved each other once, and cared for each other still, but there had always been something about the pair of them together that never quite fit right. There hadn’t been any monumental red flags, no major signs warning them their relationship wasn’t as okay as either of them thought. There had been little things here and there but they had all been just that – little.

They didn’t understand each other’s humor. Neither really liked the way the other spent their money. They never fully found a balance in their friends and never clicked well with the other’s families. Those and dozen more little things like that. Little snags like that, left unattended, would lead to their unraveling.

Early on, when all the problems still seemed so insignificantly small, they’d gone to therapy for help with them. Chad had insisted. He’d been burned in the past and didn’t want to “Go through all that again.” At the time Oliver had understood; he’d been burned too. It wasn’t until years later that he realized Chad’s wounds from the past had healed over, albeit with ugly scars, whereas his own had still been smoldering. Still open and raw and red. Unable to heal because they festered.

One therapist, who Chad’s best friend had recommended, told them they had different communication styles while another, one Oliver’s coworker swore by, said they had different life goals. The third, who they found online, told them they were “inherently incompatible,” which Chad and Oliver both found slightly amusing and a highly unethical thing to say in a first session.

The last one seemed to be helping a bit until they started talking about Oliver’s "obvious trust issues" and his "pathological inability to commit" in a tone that made Oliver want to shove the doctor's horn rimmed frames down her throat. After that, Oliver insisted they stopped going to therapy. It wasn't helping and was just a waste. Nothing was wrong with them. They didn't need improving.

So what if he didn’t always laugh at Chad’s jokes and they fought sometimes because Chad didn’t seem to understand why having the latest, greatest “geek toy” (Chad’s phrase not Oliver’s) was a necessity. Oliver wanted to see a couple that didn’t have things like that. No couple was ever really on the same page. Were they?

Besides, Oliver didn’t care that his sister couldn’t get through a lunch with Chad without her phone and two glasses of red. And Chad certainly wasn’t breaking up with Oliver because his best friends would always come up with the most outrageous excuses to back out of dinners planned. Those were the sorts of little things that did give one pause but none of them were a reason to end things with someone. No one really broke up with their boyfriend because their mother didn’t like him.

So they hadn’t broken up. They’d stayed together and figured out a way to be. No, it wasn’t perfect but life wasn’t perfect. All those little things would just iron themselves out in the end.

They stayed together and got married and adopted a beautiful daughter and became a family. And those little nagging issues grew and deepened and piled on top of each other like bricks until they were a wall between them. Solid as concrete and insurmountable.

When he lay awake in the middle of the night listening to Chad breathing in the wrong key, Oliver would tell himself that it was fine. The wall between them was fine. Everything was fine. It was all fine and normal and everyone seemed to have little walls like theirs. He and Chad were still okay. Maybe they weren’t always the happiest of couples but happiness, affection, love, all that ebbed and flowed in a marriage. This was just a...a rough patch. Marriage wasn’t a sprint. It was a marathon. And it was all fine.

Then Oliver would tell himself that at least this wall was made of little, insignificant bricks and not herculean boulders. This wall was just forgetting to kiss each other goodbye in the morning and snide comments whispered under breaths and praying for traffic on the way home because sitting in the car was less painful that making small talk with your husband. This wall wasn’t a pile of bodies and lies and blood with things like fake addictions and charges of cyber crime thrown in for fun.

Then, two years ago, the wall became too large to ignore.

Oliver had been in the kitchen, trying to figure out where $37.86 had disappeared from their checking account and Chad was at the island chopping up vegetables for dinner.

“Do you remember filling up the car at a gas station on College Avenue?” Oliver had asked, staring at the screen.

“No.” Chad paused the steady clip of his knife on the cutting board. “Hey, Oliver.”

“Yeah.” Oliver didn’t look up, still distracted. Would someone really steal their credit card just to fill up a tank of gas?

Then, as if he were inquiring about tomorrow’s weather, Chad asked, “Do you still love me?”

It was the tone rather than the question that made Oliver look up. The tone that stayed with him for days, months, years after. “Do you still love me?” was a question that should be yelled. Thrown down like a gauntlet. Fired like the weapon it was. But Chad hadn’t asked it like that. It had been calm and deliberate, with the same inflection one used to ask, “Do we need bread?”

“What?” Oliver blurted out.

“Do you still love me?” Chad repeated. He cleaned the stray bits of onions and carrot and such off the blade of the knife. “Be…Because I’m not sure I still love you.”

And Oliver hadn’t realized until that moment, staring mutely at the man across the room, that he didn’t. He didn’t love Chad anymore. Oliver couldn’t remember the last time he had.

That question, innocently asked though it was, had been the beginning of the end.

It had lead back to therapy. Trying different doctors and therapists this time but also going back to give those first round candidates another review. There were individual sessions, couples sessions, group sessions. They tried couples retreats and vacations and workshops and God knows what else. You name it, they tried it.

All of it done in the name of fixing something that had always been just a little bit broken.

“Did we ever have a spark?” Oliver asked one night.

It was their last night on vacation in the Caribbean. It had been a week of sun and sand and coming to harsh truths. They were sitting on their balcony with various drinks and such from the minibar spread out on the table between them.

Their marriage was over. They’d earned their overpriced liquor.

“What?” Chad asked.

“You know. A _spark_.” Oliver rolled his shoulders and propped up his feet on the railing. “That stupid, fucking thing we came all the way down here to reignite.”

“Oh, that.” Chad titled his head drunkenly to one side. “I don’t know.” He took another pull off his bottle. “I mean, when I first saw you I thought you were hot,” he offered as consolation.

Oliver snorted. “Back atcha.”

“Well, cheers to that then.” Chad held out his beer bottle and Oliver toasted it with a smirk on his lips that felt out of place. He should be sad. Shouldn’t they both be more sad?

“But seriously,” Oliver pressed, “Did we ever have that? That kind of passion.”

“Seriously?” Chad had lifted an eyebrow and waited for Oliver’s nod. “Well.” He thought about it for a moment. “Seriously then no,” he whispered, thoughtful and slow. “I don’t think we ever did.” He took a last long pull from his bottle, emptying it. The beer left a stale taste in his mouth but, then again, that could be the conversation too. The truth did always come out a little bitter. “But I’ve never really felt that with anyone. I guess I always figured that shit was all bull. You know, movie magic and Hallmark cards and crap like that.”

Oliver nodded. It made sense if you knew Chad. He wasn’t really the type for grand passion and romance. But still. “You’ve never felt it with _anyone_?” Oliver beleaguered the point. “You never had that connection. That—I don’t know.” Oliver leaned his head back to look at the stars and figure out how he needed to word this. “That certainty that _this_ guy, if you let him, was going to be someone special.”

Chad had simply shook his head. Then, after a moment, “You ever felt like that?”

“Once,” Oliver whispered as he stared at the stars and thought about Maker’s Manhattans, wondering why he had Chad hadn’t had this conversation seven years ago.

Once they’d gotten back to Philly, Chad had moved out and they’d filed paperwork and told their daughter.

The divorce, as amicable as any divorce could be, was still a divorce; it was still ripping apart something that had been weaved together so finely you couldn’t see a thread for the tapestry. In the end, Oliver kept the house, Chad kept most of their friends, and Ruth joined the others in her pre-k class who had two different addresses. On the surface, the three of them emerged from it all relatively unscathed but the scars still ran deep.

For a while after, the their little trio had stumbled around, learning how to walk again with missing pieces, but things were slowly getting better, or if not better, more manageable at least. So much so in fact that when Oliver had learned Chad would be staying in a hotel for a few days because of some work being done on his new apartment, Oliver had offered up the guest room without second thought.

A decision somewhat hastily made and one that Oliver was regretting at the moment.

“Okay. I get it. You don’t want to tell me who was on the phone. That’s fine,” Chad is saying, as he folds up the last of the rags that had once been towels they’d received as wedding presents. “But if I guess who was on the phone, will you tell me if I’m right?”

Oliver glances up to see Chad’s plastered a silly grin on his face and he’s reminded once again how nice this is. They may not have had love but they certainly had companionship. Why couldn’t that have been enough? But Oliver suspects the answer to that is on another coast, in an office that’s big and impressive and empty.

“Guess away,” Oliver says as he picks through the last of the socks.

“Okay.” Chad lets the word drag out as he thinks. “An old friend. Old friend. College boyfriend?”

Oliver shakes his head.

“High school boyfriend?”

Oliver snorts. “I didn’t have a high school boyfriend.”

“Bummer.” Chad tosses another pair of balled up socks in the basket. “High school crush?”

Another shake of the head. “You’re getting colder.”

“Alright. Alright.” Chad lulls his head to the side. “It is an old boyfriend, right?”

A nod this time. “Yeah.”

“An old boyfriend. An old boyfriend.” Chad lifts a finger to lips and cups his chin, pretending to think. Then, mockingly in the way only old friends can, “Who could it be? There are _so_ many.”

“Don’t be an ass.” Oliver whips a dish towel at him. “You would be in a shitty motel right now if it wasn’t for me.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” Chad lifts his hands, palm up in apology. “Cheap joke.”

“The cheapest.”

They share a comfortable look before Oliver hefts the laundry basket up and starts down the hall to put it all away.

“Wait!” Chad calls. “You never told me who it was.”

“You never guessed,” Oliver throws over his shoulder.

Chad opens his mouth to protest but lets it die when he catches the look Oliver shoots over his shoulder too before he continues down the hall. Chad may not have always been the best husband but he knows Oliver and he can see in the look that Oliver doesn’t want to tell him. Oliver wants to keep his secrets. And that’s fine. It’s okay. Oliver’s always had a right to his own secrets. They’d just never really had any before.

Chad tries to shrug of this odd feeling of anger, or maybe disappointment, and goes to start in on the dishes piled in the sink. This feeling is absurd and he needs to rid himself of it before Oliver comes back. He’s acting like a spoiled child. Oliver doesn’t owe him anything. They owe each other nothing anymore.

 _Staying here was a mistake_ , Chad thinks as he soaps up the sponge. A hotel would have been better. Safer. He keeps forgetting himself tonight.

Minutes later, Oliver returns, empty laundry basket in one hand. He puts the basket away before taking up the spot next to Chad and dries the dishes Chad’s carefully washed.

“I told you about that conference work is sending me to, right?” Oliver asks, praying his voice sounds casual and carefree. That it gives no indication this conference isn’t real. No hint that it was a spur of the moment ploy Oliver had fabricated when he’d realized Connor was getting ready to hang up on him.

Chad tilts his head, thinking, while he rinses the soap off a plate. “No. Don’t think so.”

“Chad,” Oliver wearily sighs. “I told you,” he begins but then stops with a shake of his head. He doesn’t want to lay it on too thick. “It’s later this month. The last weekend. I leave on Thursday.” Oliver drops the fake hints like breadcrumbs and waits for Chad to start just nodding along. “It was one of my weekends with Ruth but you were okay with switching.” Oliver turns away dismissively and resumes drying a plate. “If that doesn’t work anymore, let me know. I can ask my sister to take her. I hadn’t because-”

“No!” Chad’s quick to interrupt. “No. I...I remember now. The last weekend. That’s right. I had it in my head for next month for some reason.”

When Chad gives a small, apologetic smile, Oliver simply nods back and resumes drying. The guilt hangs heaving in his stomach and he feels like coming clean. He’d never really gotten the hang of lying to Chad when they’d been married; he doesn’t like the idea of it becoming a habit now. But Oliver holds his tongue and they continue with the evening's chores in comfortable silence.

He doesn’t want to tell Chad that Connor called. He doesn’t want to explain about the hang-ups or open up old wounds. Oliver wants to keep it just for himself for a bit. He wants to dream and plan and smile about it for just a bit longer before inviting anyone else in. He wants to keep it just he and Connor for as long as he can.

After the dishes, the dryer buzzes and Oliver swaps out another load of laundry while Chad finishes up in the kitchen, cleaning off the counters and sweeping the floor.

Chores finished for the night, the rest can wait until morning, Chad heads for the living room while Oliver goes for the bedroom.

“Want to watch something?” Chad asks, holding out the remote as Oliver pauses in the doorway.

Oliver shakes his head. “Thanks. I’m going bed.” He lifts a hand in farewell. “Night.”

“Night,” Chad says. Then, just as Oliver’s turning to head down the hall. “Hey, Oliver.”

Oliver pokes his head back in. “Yeah?”

“Was it a good old friend on the phone?”

Chad watches as Oliver’s whole face lights up. The smile spreads wide and fast and Oliver looks down in embarrassment. Chad can’t remember the last time Oliver looked so happy.

“It was a very good, old friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [x](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> [x](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com)


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